In a sudden storm your car has skidded off a mountain path on a patch of black ice and you’re plummeting to a fiery death hundreds of feet below; that adorable toddler you’re babysitting has reached up to the kitchen counter top where the until a moment ago the kettle hungrily bubbled, yanked its dangling power cord and overbalanced the fuming contents which are right now falling in a great steaming flash toward her unblemished skin face; you’re in bathroom of Le Bernardin, congratulating yourself at how perfectly your evening with Shakira is going, and just how great her new implants will look tonight, spayed and tweaked in your leatherdungeon, when the first twitch of a hard knocks off your aim, geysering an unavoidable piss jet toward your bunched Armani trousers.
Whom to blame? Fate? Zeus? Gravity? You can shake a mental fist at hades if you please, but it’s puss blooded denizens will merely screech, and paraphrase Ice-T. ’It wasn’t me babe, it was that motherfucker linear time!’
Down, down through the ages of mankind’s agonizing infancy, plague, famine, senescence, death. Which of these I ask you, which horrors could have happened but for the steely grip of that heartless, bloodless, mindless, soulless, fearless, fucker, linear time.
If you’ve ever spent a moment (a moment which has cruelly passed leaving it forever lost) contemplating the death of legends, the assassination’s of Abraham Lincoln, Jack Kennedy, Reverend King or that nasal four eyes from the Beatles, then you’ve known its merciless power. If you’ve lost friends or relatives to death, abandonment or carelessness, and remember them fondly, remember this. Those timeless memories aren’t timeless at all, but fading illusory flickers in an inevitably withering cranium, lives you could be living, stolen by the thief of history.
Shit kiddo, in time you took to read this, one seven millionth of your life has passed. Does that seem so little? You’ll never get it back.